


Conversations over Blood and Scones

by rranne



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-12-19
Updated: 2011-12-19
Packaged: 2017-10-27 13:11:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/296216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rranne/pseuds/rranne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She wrote her thesis on William the Bloody and actually met the subject of her studies in Sunnydale years later, but he wasn't the first of the Clan Aurelius she had known. After a successful Council venture to rid Iceland of a band of renegade trolls, Lydia had hid an injured vampire from the wet works squad behind some fallen support timbers, now it was time for the favor to be repayed. Darla, lamenting on the loss of 'family' contacts over the years invites her to her icey lair and grants one favor, an interview. A North Sea storm blows in and Lydia's stay with vampire becomes quite an educational experience in the land of fire and ice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Conversations over Blood and Scones

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first attempt at actually writing slash, but I have been kicking this story around for a while. It will be a ficlet, not too long by my standards, and like Dru of the Veil, will be an intermittent project, so expect postings to be irregular.

**February 23th, 1995: The North Sea, a house on the western coast of Iceland.**

Lydia stood outside on the landing, the wind off the sea blowing a gentle salt spray into her face. The sun setting over the water added a warm pinkish cast to the otherwise white-ish grey-blue of the rocky cliff-ridden shoreline and icy water below.

The house was a little over fifteen kilometers up the coast from Keflavik and the taxi driver had refused to wait arguing that the fast melting ice pack on the private drive was issue enough even though the taxi had the de-rigor four-wheel drive required of such a vehicle in this terrain ; if they slid off the drive he would have to call the truck to get them back on the road and that would cost her, as it was, he charged 10,000 kroner above the standard fare and dumped her and her bags at the entrance gate. He said she could call when she was ready and if the drive was passable he would come and pick her up and he noted boisterously that it would be the same rate for the return trip.

She found the gate unlocked and recently removed of its ice and snow covering. The auto path was also well maintained and went gradually from the seven foot icepack to bare asphalt with the span of one hundred thirty meters. It was not near as slippery as she had thought, having been recently gritted and she had worn sensible boots with good traction so she had made the walk with good speed. Now she was with-in mere feet of the door.

Lydia slid the sleeve of her coat up and glanced at her watch; it was 1:52 in the afternoon, twenty hours and 34 minutes of darkness would pass until the sun dawned again _…twenty hours and 34 minutes, seems like a short time to live…I should have told someone I was coming…anyone…No, Quentin would have forbade it._

As the sky swiftly darkened, the outside lights came up progressively as if by timer or sensor, the lights inside the foyer were not as subtle. _Last chance to bolt…_ she thought _… just drop the equipment and… run! No! Buck up Lydy- Girl! You are trained. Trust your instincts on this. That beautiful young Norse-god of a messenger she had sent to the hotel had said that she was the only vampire there and you have handled **one** before. You are quite capable… and face it… you may never have this chance again._

She took a deep breathe to fortify her spirits enough to raise the knocker on the door but the cold salt air caught in her throat and she found herself in the middle of a jag when the door opened of its own accord. At it stood a girl, a young woman actually, of about her own stature, which was short by Icelandic standards, and auburn-red haired; not the warm titan-y color of a highlands auburn, but the cool plum-burgundy with glints of fire that was apparently natural here in this land of ice and fire. She smiled as Lydia’s jag receded then motioned for her to enter. As she bent to retrieve the equipment baggage Lydia’s hand was met by that of the Norse-god that had been dispatched to her hotel room days before with a bouquet of delightful hydroponic mottle-coloured roses, sans thorns, an equally delightful box of rather expensive chocolates and the details of this proposed meeting. The other small bag was scooped up by another girl slightly taller and more voluptuous than the one who still held the door open leaving Lydia nothing to do but enter.

The foyer was well lite and surprisingly warm and she felt her face flush immediately as the Norse-god helped her off with her coat.

“You are wet,” he said, “…where you waiting long outside?”

“Oh, no, “she replied, her hand absently going to her hair that had been in a neat bun when she left the hotel. It had since been blown by the costal wind and was damp from the spray and snow. The hood of her coat being all but forgotten after the first breeze took it down. She had to concede that he was correct when the bun fairly dripped when she gave it a little squeeze then attended to glasses fogged over with the change in temperature from outside to in.

“Gerda, please assist our lovely guest to freshen herself after her journey from town.” He said to the taller of the two women attending them, who nodded in response while handing her coat to the shorter one who had held the door. “We ask, as well,” he said turning is eyes back to her and causing a reheating of the flush on her cheeks,”… that you please remove your footwear while in the powder room. Gerda will fetch you slippers to wear for your stay; the mistress does not abide puddles in the house. Ulfa will see that they are properly dried and ready for your departure and your wraps as well. I will inform the mistress that you have arrived.”

“I-If it is too early, please don’t wake her,” Lydia ventured not wanting to do anything that would displease her hostess, knowing well her reputation.

“She has been awake for hours,” he added with a smile,”…the Mistress does not keep…regular… hours when she is here,” then turned to take his leave. Lydia watched him walk down the hallway and disappear around a corner. A small muffled chuckle from Gerda brought her attention back to tasks at hand.

“Come,” the voluptuous Valkyrie said, “…let us get your dried and…presentable.” It never ceased to amaze her that these people had a command of her language that she could never hope to master in theirs. Danish was difficult for her at best: Icelandic, in any form except on paper, was impossible.

The powder room was huge and included a full bath, shower, sunken Jacuzzi tub and all other necessary facilities, including a bidet conveniently screened for privacy, it even had a fireplace and a free standing chiminea and Lydia believed that was a skylight overhead, though it was presently closed, and the fixtures were such as she had only ever seen while lunching at the best of London hotels.

Lydia removed her boots; realizing only then that they were soaked through and took the soft Icelandic wool sox that Gerda had offered. They bore a delicate neutral pattern that was extremely comforting to the eye as well as the feet and after a thorough toweling, followed them with a pair of suede slippers that seemed sturdy enough for outerwear rather than mere house-wear.

Gerda had undone her bun with one fast and completely unnoticed motion and gently blotted the dampness out of Lydia’s hair with a towel. Unsatisfied with the results, Gerda reached for the comb and a bottle of pleasant smelling spray and began to comb and style Lydia’s long hair.

“That is usually of no use, it has always been unruly, “Lydia began but stopping as she watched the Nordic girl work miracles with a spray or two a few swipes of the comb and a scrunch. Gerda smiled behind her into the mirror as they both admired her speedy handiwork.

“I think we are ready now,” she said the accent thick in her melodic voice.

“Oh, um, since I am here…” Lydia started; she had needed to use the other facilities since the taxi had dropped her off. Gerda nodded and excused herself. Lydia quickly attended to necessities, briefly admired the girl’s amazing handiwork with the hair in the mirror and found the Norse woman waiting outside the powder room door to escort her to the house's mistress.

The house was surprisingly modern, the interior decidedly Scandinavian and the décor eclectic and expensive judging from the quality of the artwork. Lydia did not expect this, truthfully she hadn’t known what to expect most of the places she had known vampires to inhabit were dirty caverns, old mausoleums, abandoned and derelict houses, nor did she expect to see the Vampiress wearing couture, from the look of it, and sipping what was obviously either white wine, vodka or perhaps sparkling spring water from some rather expensive Danish crystal, lounging on a chaise in front of a charmingly realistic electronic fireplace, remote control in hand.

Darla merely waved her into her presence as she pointed the remote towards a section of empty wall painted with a rather impressive and somewhat bawdy rendition of one of the ancient eddies at the side of the room that promptly opened to reveal a truly stunning view of the choppy sea and a horizon just beginning to show the faint flicker of borealis lights offset in the distance against the sky. Lydia surmised that the room itself jutted over the cliff side as the view gave that distinct impression of being suspended above the water, somewhat like standing on the forecastle of a sailing ship only without the nauseating movement of the deck below. After admiring the view for a moment Darla turned her attentions to the representative of the Watcher Council, that stood stiffly and awkwardly before her.

“I see you have recovered from…the troll cave.” Lydia said.

“Yes, thank you,” Darla extended a smooth bare leg into the air resting it momentarily on the back of the chaise, to illustrate the fact; the fabric of her flowing Cavalli gown sliding down to reveal an expanse of creamy thigh. She sipped the drink, and scoffed mildly. ”That’s something I rarely…actually,” she paused again and swirled the Riesling in the glass savoring its scent “… I’ve **never** said it before, to a mortal.” She drank a deep swig, relishing the bouquet.

Abruptly she stopped, as if it had just occurred to her, she cocked her head and said, “…please excuse me, Ms. Chalmers; I am being a terrible hostess. Please sit down,” she gestured to the settee diagonal from her chaise. "Can I get you some Riesling, it is excellent, or some Ska perhaps…”

Darla craned her slender neck abruptly and shouted toward the intercom box on the far wall. “Runólf,” she fairly screeched, her own timbre cracking with the excessive volume necessary to activate the intercom’s sensors. “Runólf, are you there?”

“Yes Mistress, how may I serve,” the melodic sultry baritone came back through.

Lydia felt her cheeks flush ever so slightly when she heard it or maybe it was the warmth from the fireplace just then reaching them. Darla smiled noting with amusement both the other woman’s interest in her servant and her embarrassment at it.

“Bring a tray for our guest, some refreshments: scones and sandwiches, and some of that latest caviar. Oh, and Runólf,” she added,”…a tray for me as well, fresh,” she said with emphasis, “… please.” Lydia had no doubts as to what she meant.

Darla returned her attentions to her glass and to the same slightly askew glance as before and she contemplated her guest with more than marginal curiosity.

Lydia was younger than Darla had first guessed; younger actually that she had been when her Master made her, and not nearly as un-attractive as she had first seemed in the dark and dusty disorder of the troll cave.

Her hair was a medium light chestnut, a few shades darker than Darla’s own true color, though that particular unique shade had not been seen in nearly four hundred years, and appeared to have only the highlights that nature had given it. She had the complexion of a highland dairymaid: clear, fair and unblemished but for a few sun freckles and eyes of a warm tawny shade to match. Her brows were plucked into a severe compliance that Darla hadn’t found pleasing in decades, finally favoring the more natural shape that was popular these days.

But it was Lydia’s mouth that was the most compelling; full and just that same shade she remembered from the climbing vines that scaled the outer walls of the villa where she had spent her summers as a child on the outskirts of Seville. It was not shaped in a pout, exactly; rather the opposite, more of a permanent pucker and presently looked bitten by the sea salt and northern wind.

Closer inspection of the Council’s woman revealed both a slimmer and more athletic build than either the worn worsteds and tweeds she now wore, or the field gear she had donned for the cave excursion, had allowed her to guess. Perhaps, she thought as she finished the Riesling, this interview may prove more interesting than the grilling of her knowledge of the secrets and history of Clan Aurelius she had been expecting.

**Author's Note:**

> Second posting notes: I have corrected a few typos from a hasty first posing and added the remainder of this chapter - as usual, feedback would be greatly appreciated.
> 
> This is an un-beta'd work, so revisions and additions to the chapters will be more common than with other works.
> 
> To be continued...


End file.
